After sweetly reciting the teacher’s words in a dry tone, Sahyeon curled up the corners of his lips into a grin and looked at him again.
Dan Ijae raised one eyebrow and leaned his upper body slightly toward Sahyeon.
“Are you saying it’s like Emperor Hyoje who served her father, who broke her leg, until the end?”
Emperor Hyoje was the fifth emperor of the old empire.
She was one of the collateral bloodlines stemming from the founding emperor.
She had spent a troubled childhood under her poor, alcoholic father.
One day, her father, drunk, became suspicious for no reason, forced her to kneel, and beat her mercilessly.
Those around her shouted for her to push him away and run, but she stayed, saying that upsetting one’s parents was also the child’s sin, and since it was her parents who gave her flesh and blood, if they wished to take it back, it was only right to comply.
In the end, one of her legs was broken from the beating, and she had to live the rest of her life with a limp.
But because this tale spread widely, it caught the attention of the emperor, who had no children, and she was adopted as his daughter.
Later, when she ascended the throne, her father came forward and said:
“It’s thanks to me that Your Majesty ascended the throne. Had I not treated you harshly back then, how could you have escaped poverty?”
His shamelessness shocked the entire court, and they insisted on punishing him severely.
But Emperor Hyoje brought her father into the royal palace and cared for him devotedly until his death.
This became a symbol of filial piety and the classic tale of Hyoje passed down through generations.
However, the day Sahyeon first heard this tale, he had a different thought.
Was it truly filial devotion that made Hyoje stay despite her father’s brutal beating?
Could it not have been despair—a hopeless resignation, wanting to end her miserable life?
And if her father beat her to death in front of everyone, he would live the rest of his life being condemned as the man who killed his child.
That might have been the only way a powerless girl could take revenge.
What did Emperor Hyoje think of her father after becoming emperor?
She couldn’t take revenge.
Hyoje was a wise person.
The reputation of being a devoted daughter was what made her emperor, so acting against that would only undermine her legitimacy.
So she hid her true feelings and served him to the end.
It was the patience of a wise ruler recorded in the history books.
“You’re well informed, Master. So, what did Hyoje gain from it?”
“I heard you shouldn’t expect a reward for filial behavior.”
Sahyeon leaned in toward him slightly and lowered his voice.
“That’s the ideal, yes. But Master, if people truly weren’t meant to expect rewards, why is Hyoje’s story taught in the first place? There are countless children who are beaten to death by their parents without ever talking back.”
Dan Ijae leaned in toward Sahyeon as well.
Their gazes met at a distance close enough to be overwhelming.
“Hyoje received a reward.”
“Exactly. And that one person who rose to the throne through filial devotion is remembered forever, while those who can’t even cling to a local noble’s coattail sweet-talk their children: ‘Don’t expect anything from me. Someday, the gods of heaven and earth will bless you.’”
“So is that your answer to my question?”
“No. I’m saying your question was flawed to begin with. Why are you asking for my thoughts? What matters is your own situation.”
“If you were the child of a butcher destined to slaughter animals your whole life, what would it matter if you protested when your parents beat you? But your parents are the parents of the entire nation. So when you ask about this passage, I can only answer one way.”
Sahyeon looked directly into Dan Ijae’s eyes and spoke clearly.
“You should follow the sages’ teachings.”
The rare yellow color in his eyes shone even more brilliantly under the sunlight streaming through the window.
Sahyeon suddenly remembered the yellow eyes that glowed like a crescent moon in the pitch-black darkness two nights ago, when even the moonlight had vanished.
It had felt like encountering a ray of hope in utter despair.
Maybe that was why—every time he looked into those eyes, he felt a wave of nausea—but now, he felt surprisingly at ease.
He could look into them for a long time without discomfort…
No, but this is too long.
“If you don’t want to follow it, do as you like. Don’t you at least have that much resolve at twenty-five?”
“I never said I wouldn’t follow it.”
Instead of answering, Sahyeon lightly tapped the corner of his eye.
Only then did Dan Ijae lean back.
“But if my teacher asks about my resolve…”
Dan Ijae’s gaze dropped back to the text.
The dark green of his irises rippled momentarily like water.
But soon he curled one corner of his mouth and opened a small drawer in the desk, pulling out a jangdo—a personal ornamental knife.
The blade was sharp enough that it was more than just a decoration.
“I, too, am not in a position to receive a ‘reward’ like Hyoje. I’m no different from the butcher you mentioned. And since my father is also the father of this nation, it is right to serve him not with filial piety, but with loyalty.”
He used the knife to cut the leather string binding the bamboo slips, then pulled out the one containing the passage and tossed it into the brazier.
“This passage holds no value for me.”
The tip of the bamboo slip blackened in the quiet fire.
Sahyeon furrowed his brow and mulled over his words.
It wasn’t simply an excuse to avoid studying.
Saying he wasn’t in a situation to receive a “reward like Hyoje” meant he had no interest in the throne.
And stating that his feelings toward his father were not “filial” but “loyal” revealed that he saw himself as a subject, not a son.
In front of Sahyeon, he was resolutely saying, “I have no intention of competing for the succession.”
The important question was why he was saying this to Sahyeon.
…Was it because he believed Sahyeon had already joined the Grand Duke Taejeong’s faction?
Did he really think Sahyeon—a man who had saved him not once, but twice—was someone who’d sell him out just to gain favor with the Grand Duke?
Sahyeon clenched his lips in irritation and reached toward the brazier.
“Looks like it’s my turn to act as the teacher now.”
He retrieved the charred bamboo slip and reinserted it between the ones Dan Ijae had cut.
“Your words carry more weight than your thoughts. That’s because you were born into the royal family. So when you make a claim, you must support it with proper reasoning.”
“And the best support is the writings of the sages. Xiaoxue (Lesser Learning) is the foundation of all learning and must be backed with legitimate grounds before being discarded like kindling.”
“Is Hyoje’s example not enough?”
“It’s not. You’ve only shared your thoughts, Master.”
Dan Ijae curled his lips into a faint smile.
There was even a hint of mischief in it, and for a brief moment, Sahyeon felt an inexplicable sense of foreboding—but he couldn’t stop now.
“Do you know why it’s called Xiaoxue?”
“Because it’s for teaching children, I suppose. Even though I’m twenty-five and still learning from it.”
“Exactly. Since it’s meant to teach children, it’s natural for someone who’s lived twenty-five years to have doubts. But do you know what you must read in order to critique Xiaoxue? The Six Canonical Disciplines (Gyeongjo Yukseo).”
(The Six Canonical Disciplines include: Poetry, Rites, Law, Changes, History, and Military Strategy. It’s the full curriculum traditionally taught to future rulers or government officials, with the first five common in elite education and the sixth reserved for ruling-class heirs.)
Typically, after finishing Xiaoxue, aristocrats move on to these disciplines.
While Xiaoxue could be completed in a year or three at most, the Six Canonical Disciplines took much longer due to the vast number of foundational texts and commentaries—often over a decade of study.
Only after mastering them was one considered qualified for public office.
Thus, anyone aspiring to govern had to pass through this gateway.
Dan Ijae, who was practically set to become the Lord of Shinreung, would surely have to study these texts.
Of course, Sahyeon had no intention of staying by his side that long.
“This is why you must continue your studies. If you dislike a passage from Xiaoxue, someone will surely ask you why. And when that happens, you must cite passages from the Rites, like—‘Unquestioning obedience is…’”
“If, for example, one were to argue that it is not about filial piety toward one’s parents, or if one were to cite examples from private history to reveal that there have been tragedies in ancient history due to blind obedience, then the other party would likely believe that Confucius had at least mastered the Classics of the Zhou and Han Dynasties. On the other hand, if someone were to ask about filial piety and Confucius responded by quoting from the Lesser Learning (So-hak), saying that one must obey their parents’ will even while crying, the other party would realize that Confucius had only read the Lesser Learning. This is exactly why, when first meeting someone, people throw out a theoretical topic to gauge the other’s level.”
Just like when the Great Monk Dae-gyeong asked Sahyeon for commentary on a text with obvious content.
“So then, do you study just to show off to others?”
Dan Ijae asked while stroking his smooth chin. Sahyeon, fully aware of the meaning behind the question, snorted and replied.
“I didn’t come here to be a scholar, but to enter politics. Why else would I have studied?”
Sahyeon ran his hand over the bamboo slips, still warm with lingering heat. The soot rubbed off black on his pale fingertips.
“That’s why the current Confucius must not discard this sentence.”